Poems (Ford)/The Canonization
THE CANONIZATION.
[The canonization of the Japanese Martyrs, in 1862.]
[The canonization of the Japanese Martyrs, in 1862.]
"Lone mother of dead empires," throned Upon the ancient hillsThat rise o'er Tiber's yellow flood, What joy thy bosom thrills?What strains of triumph proudly swell, And fill the listening air,While thousands on thy breast bow down To God in praise and prayer?
Dost sing some brilliant victory won, As in the days of old,When here the mighty Cæsars sat, In robes of glittering gold?No—like themselves, like all of earth, Their power has passed away;But fadeless is the triumph thou Dost celebrate to-day.
Thou singest the glorious victory Won by that martyr-band,Who for the blessed Saviour's sake Died in a pagan land; Keen torture was to them but joy, And life but little loss,Since they the signal honor won Of dying on the cross.
O holy martyr-souls, like Him Who on Mount Calvary died,Breathing forgiveness from the cross While ye were crucified,And telling those poor, blinded ones Of Jesus' boundless love,Who died for all, that all might live In bliss with Him above,—
Through heaven's blue curtains do ye gaze With deeper joy to-day,As thousands from all Christendom Their humble homage pay?As o'er the great Apostle's tomb Your names are numbered downWith those who bear the victor's palm And wear the martyr's crown?
Blest souls, where ye in far Japan Your life-blood freely poured,O'er pagan temples yet shall rise The altars of the Lord;He said who wrote His new command Upon the world's great page, His Church should spread o'er every land, And live through every age.
O bark of Peter, stanch and strong, On Time's tempestuous seaThou 'st braved the gales of many an age— There is no wreck for thee;When to the pirate's evil eye Thy hope seems nearly gone,The crimson waves of martyrs' blood Surge round and bear thee on.
Thy day of power has not gone by, O deathless Church of God,Though, like thy Founder, thou hast felt The scourge of Pilate's rod;Thou 'rt changeless as the sun that bathes In gold each glittering domeThat gems the fair, majestic brow Of proud, imperial Rome.
O Cross of Christ! in joy or woe Our hearts must cling to thee:Oh, could our dim, earth-clouded eyes The boundless future see,Our keenest pangs would seem but slight, And life itself no loss,If we might win a fadeless crown By dying on the cross.